


SherlolliShots - Like Poetry

by Liathwen



Series: SherlolliShots [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom!Molly, Dom/sub Play, F/M, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liathwen/pseuds/Liathwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill for pomwell on tumblr</p><p>Hey dear liathwen! I would like to ask for some Sherlolly smut. If possible with dom!Molly and sub!Sherlock. Thank you for your works by far, they are great!</p><p>(OMG guys you don't have ANY idea how hard this was to write... I'm still blushing furiously)</p><p>A HUGE THANKS TO ALLTHEBELLSINVENICE AND MOREICINGONTOPTHECAKE FOR THE FANTASTIC IDEAS AND ENCOURAGEMENT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SherlolliShots - Like Poetry

“Love at the lips was touch

As sweet as I could bear;

And once that seemed too much;

I lived on air…”

She’s laid out next to him on the bed, sprawling on her stomach with her torso propped up on those knobby little elbows. He can see the curve of her bare arse past her shoulder, where the loose oversized tee, the only article of clothing on her body, is slipping, showing a decadent peek of the ivory skin there.

He’s trying to hard not to squirm, knowing it won’t be much longer. Knowing any movement will delay his gratification. She’s so calm, while he’s been reduced to a sweating, shaking mess, muttering curses and benedictions under his breath, oh so quietly that he doesn’t disturb the gentle lilt of her tones as she reads aloud from the leather-bound book beneath her.

“…That crossed me from sweet things,

The flow of — was it musk

From hidden grapevine springs

Downhill at dusk?”

He knows she’s chosen it because of the smell. It’s evocative of his favorite pair of wrist cuffs, the leather so soft and cool against his skin but gripping him, holding him mercilessly. She’d grinned when he looked for them, wondering at their absence before she’d tied him by the thumbs to her headboard with a thin cotton string, so easily breakable, and he’d understood. She wanted him to have to concentrate on not breaking his delicate bindings.

“…I had the swirl and ache

From sprays of honeysuckle

That when they’re gathered shake

Dew on the knuckle…”

Her slim hands rubbed together, a cool lotion between her palms, and she’d placed her hands on his chest, massaging the liquid into his skin. Sherlock groaned in pleasure, her precise touches working out the tension of his muscles, and he vaguely hoped she’d planned to repeat the actions on his sore back. She pulled away and his body unconsciously followed her touch. Molly smiled but placed a palm firmly on his taunt abdomen, bidding him to stay still without words.

“…I craved strong sweets, but those

Seemed strong when I was young:

The petal of the rose

It was that stung…”

When she lit the three small candles, and dripped a bit of wax on the pale skin of his chest and stomach, affixing a candle to each puddle of wax, he’d known it was not going to be an easy task to stay still and silent. Her slim fingers drew patterns into his flesh, writings, and his breathing was heavy, the warm sensation sending ripples of arousal over his bare body. He tensed, then slowly relaxed, her fingers, in combination with the warmth on his skin lulling him into a sense of serenity. The shadows of the room moved in time with the tiny flames, and he was mesmerized by the dancing, flickering light. His eyes grew heavy and he licked his lips as his gaze darted back over to Molly who still read aloud.

“…Now no joy but lacks salt,

That is not dashed with pain

And weariness and fault;

I crave the stain…”

She paused and lay her book down, marking her place, and picked up two objects. One, she popped into her mouth, her bare shoulder hiding it from Sherlock’s view. The other object Sherlock eyed warily as Molly sat up onto her knees, leaning over him, careful to avoid the flame. His eyes focused on her mouth as she sucked at the object within and he stiffened once more, his cock growing erect from the sight. She smiled at him, a loving gesture, and tapped his temple, causing his eyes to flutter closed and his head to lift. She slipped the soft strip of silken material around him and tied it into a loose knot on the side of his head, for easy removal.

He could no longer see her, but felt her weight shift on the bed as she settled back down beside him and lifted the book. He heard the wet pop and she pulled the unknown object from her mouth and he counted backwards from the tenth digit of pi to get himself under control as images of her lips wrapped around his cock flashed through his mind.

“…Of tears, the aftermark

Of almost too much love,

The sweet of bitter bark

And burning clove…”

She began reading again quietly, almost breathing the words instead of saying them. Sherlock disciplined himself into stillness once more, but almost broke his delicate bonds when he felt a new sensation on his stomach. Her fingers were now replaced by a sliver of ice, trailing over his skin in swirling patterns, around and between the dwindling votives which were still leaving lazy trails of white wax across his porcelain flesh. He heard a slight chuckle come from her as he squirmed and he immediately stilled, sucking in his breath, focusing on the warring sensations of warmth and coolness, dripping across his chest and stomach, and above it all, her soft words, enveloping his mind in a sweet honey-like stickiness, stilling all thought except those of her.

“…When stiff and sore and scarred

I take away my hand

From leaning on it hard

In grass or sand…”

The ice melted on him, as did the wax, and she moved from the book to his body, straddling his legs with her pelvis, grinding her wet sex against his strong thigh. He felt the brush of her long hair across his hipbone, and fought the urge to squirm as she mouthed at the protrusion. More sucking noises and he helplessly bucked against her stomach, which brushed gently over his hard prick. A small hand laid across his lower abdomen, just above where his cock lay heavily against him, stayed his rhythmic thrusting against her, his desperation for friction unfulfilled.

He gasped sharply as her tongue darted out to run along his ribs, cold from the piece of ice she’d been suckling. She worked over to one nipple, still carefully avoiding the candles, which burnt low and hot against his skin. A breath of cool air and she blew them out, trailing a piece of ice around them with her fingers as her frosty mouth continued licking and sucking at his nipples, tormenting each in turn. Molly leaned up further still, nipping and mouthing at his collarbone before attaching her chilly mouth to his pulse point and sucking hard, worrying the skin into a dark mark.

He groaned helplessly, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her and arched his body into her smaller frame. Suddenly, her weight was gone and he frantically moved his head from side to side, searching for her, the silk of his blindfold preventing him from seeing where she’d gone.

A dip of the bed was the only signal he received before her mouth and hands, both brilliantly cool, were on the overheated flesh of his cock.

He thrust up involuntarily and was chastised with a sharp dig of the nails of her free hand into his arse cheek. He let out a strangled moan as Molly bobbed up and down, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his prick.

She stopped suddenly, clambering up the bed, and pulling at the blindfold until it slid off and he could just make out her form in the light of the remaining candles lit on the armoire in the corner of the room.

She slid back down his body leisurely pressing her weight against him, letting him feel the wetness of her sex and the heat of her body through the thin cotton of the oversized shirt. Molly settled back down between his legs, looking up at him through the veil of hair that had fallen over her face. She licked her lips and recited the last stanza of the poem as she raked her nails over and settled her slim fingers around his cock, stroking vigorously as he moaned and writhed helplessly.

“…The hurt is not enough:

I long for weight and strength

To feel the earth as rough

To all my length...”

She moved her mouth back onto his prick, sucking hard, and shifted a hand down to play with his heavy sack. Sherlock stiffened and cried out, pulsing into her mouth as his orgasm wracked his body, sending shivers down his spine and a languid melting through his muscles. He was dimly aware that he’d broken his fragile bond to the headboard but was too lost in his pleasure to care.

He collapsed back onto the bed when he’d finished, noting through his weariness that she’d swallowed every bit of his emissions down and licked her lips after.

Molly rolled off of him and cleaned him gently with a soft wet cloth, running it over his cock and up onto his stomach, cleaning away the remnants of the wax. When she’d finished, she reached up and untied his thumbs, laughing quietly at his broken bonds. She snuggled against him and lazily threw an arm over his, tracing the pattern of the mark on his throat.

His eyes drifted shut with one word running through his mind.

_Molly._

_\------------_

(the poem is called "To Earthward" by Robert Frost)


End file.
